


for a little while longer

by cockcrow



Category: Klaus (2019)
Genre: M/M, Out of Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-04-21 08:42:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockcrow/pseuds/cockcrow
Summary: A small account of the year gone by after the very first Christmas.Mogens’s snaggletooth smirk widened ever so slightly while Jesper’s skin tone turned a few shades whiter. “Heh… Looks like we’ll be together for a little longer.”
Relationships: Jesper Johanssen/Mogens
Comments: 3
Kudos: 76





	for a little while longer

**Author's Note:**

> \- ooc characters  
\- un betad  
\- lol bad writing, anyways

_December 26th _

Jesper’s heart thudded from the realisation that _they_ did it. The first ever Christmas with the presents and all that. As the sun continued rising, the postman kept breathing—truly taking the sight in—fog smoking out of his mouth like cigarette smog. He grinned at Klaus, and he was elated to see the older man return that smile.

This is was he was made for. This is what he was _supposed_ to do.

The white landscape of snow glowed from dawn’s arrival. For a little while longer, he wished he was still delivering the presents, for that warming gratification of knowing he did right.

The snow fell to their own whims as the clock ticked on. He feels _good._ It felt perversely and unfalteringly amazing. Like this obscene swelling in his heart was a drug pumping through his veins. The cheering of the children became an audience’s rounds of applause recognising the orchestra’s efforts and expertise.

Wind swooshed around him and Klaus. And if this was an omen, it was for greater things to come.

Christmas spirit sure felt like an addiction.

_January 24th _

The door to the cabin slammed shut with no argument. Echoes of the howling storm knocked on the walls, roof, and chilled air around. And, something like thunder crackled—like bark splintered into unsalvageable debris from the bitter cold, like a campfire humming beyond the reaches of its lumber onto the forest beside—from outside the reaches of the door.

The drift of frost lined the crevices of the creaking planks until it landed on the mudded rug circling the small table with the captain’s hat. With an earlier trip outside to catch fish for tonight’s dinner (and tomorrow’s three-meal set), late snow still dusted the brim of Mogens’s cap, a slow gradient from navy to the white of Jesper’s skin.

Ah yes, now, Jesper. Now, it was not the postman’s intention to get tossed by a sudden ocean wave’s interference into the cranky ship’s interior—lush with that oh so humbling smell of fish, eggs gone bad, and that unsinkable edge of cold which felt almost tangible—but it had happened anyways.

“Ouch,” muttered Jesper, tenderly rubbing the blond of his head, trying to soothe the incoming ache much like the other nuances he’s had to accommodate for since his arrival.

He had stumbled right into Mogens’s cabin, and now scattered like snow to Smeerensburg was his limbs to floor and Jesper’s mailbag bled out the day’s collection of envelopes.

“Well, well, well… Look at who we have here. Trouncing _my _place up and down for…?” drawled Mogens, leaning up from the edge of the mattress. The remains of his hair were matted from the temporary lie on the bed, while his balding forehead lightened with a sheen from the nearby lit candlewick.

“Well. I—”

Mogens slowly observed Jesper’s gangly arms and hands sprawl into a self-made sign language, shooting off into who-knows-where land. Although, as poignant as the creation of newly-made language could be, Mogens wasn’t anywhere near impressed.

“It’s… Um, I just wanted to— Or rather, Alva wanted me to do a”—Jesper cleared his throat as he got back onto his legs, trying to reclaim the vague air of propriety expected of him—“‘_Wellness Check’_,” said the postman while air-quoting the last part.

“Hm… Alva, eh?” Mogens rubbed his chin as he spotted the stained calendar hanging on a nearby wall. “I could’ve sworn we chatted just a couple days ago.” He glanced back at Jesper who was dusting off a dense bed of snow from his shoulders and cap as well as the dust now lingering on his pant legs.

“Mind you; you were supposed to come to the post office to collect last week’s outgoing mail as well.”

This was news to Mogens.

“Isn’t it Tuesday?”

“It’s Tuesday, yes.” Jesper spotted the same calendar and slowly observed the dates. “But, it seems that your calendar’s two weeks behind…”

Mogens stared at Jesper in disbelief for a moment before correcting his expression to some state of blasé indifference, hoping the other hadn’t caught him.

However, Jesper’s attention wasn’t trained on the face, but, rather, the ferryman’s body.

Jesper had only ever seen Mogens in the usual, standard garb: sturdy navy pea coat; soft, thick dark-olive turtleneck; and the charismatic captain hat, recognisable from practically miles away. And without all the layers, Jesper finally could see the inky blue of the tattoos swimming along the curves of the other man’s torso—curling and parading about the shoulder, the collarbone and neck, and the arms. The blond couldn’t help but notice the litter of scars trailing along the torso as well—some almost cosmetic, but one major healed gash existed. Mogens’s remaining wife beater and body hair barely did anything to shield the postman’s eyes from absorbing the scene in front of him.

Quickly cleared his throat (fist to lips, closed eyes—the whole reset), Jesper spoke again. “I know being lazy is your thing, but this one certainly takes the cake. Now, when can I expect you back from your made-up holiday break?”

Jesper turned towards the door. “Tomorrow, perhaps?” the blond added.

Now, this was familiar grounds to Mogens; the easy quip slid out of his lips in no hurry. “Aww… Jeez, Jesper. You’ve_ really_ missed me that much?” He pursed his lips into a pucker, tilting his head towards the other man. “Mwah, _mmmwah_.”

“Bleh.” A pause. “I should go now. You seem all fine and dandy and still… slovenly, but regardless, I’m sure I can expect you tomorrow noontime, I presume.” Jesper started squatting down to collect the spilt letters to deposit back into the courier bag.

Making way to a nearby coat stand, Mogens shrugged the turtleneck over his body while forgoing the coat. “Yeah, yeah. Let me show you the way out. Anything for your Royal Highness.”

Ever since the incident from last Christmas, everyone in town knew about their newest postman’s heritage and especially what ‘royal’ meant. A son of the Postmaster General—the top of the top of the Royal Postal Service—in Smeerensburg? Unthinkable, but the changes he had brought onto the isolated town were needed. (Alva and Mogens could attest to that). Unfortunately for Jesper, all this recognition meant that not only the townsfolk brought him up as a gossip point (bachelorhood, money, and character and all that), Mogens had joyously attained a new slew of words, titles to call him.

The boatman spread out his arms and closed in on Jesper, but, at the last moment, the postman dipped out of the way and walked towards the stairs heading upstairs. “Yeah, no. You really don’t have to.”

Jesper turned his head around and took a last look onto the older man, trying to ascertain if he was actually okay.

Even with the turtleneck on, Mogens still appeared wearied by something: his skin dull and sallow, eyes ringed with dark circles. The older man looked _tired. _Jesper could tell that the other man wasn’t spelling the whole picture or any picture close to whatever the truth was, but he wouldn’t push. The postman knew what it was like to keep secrets and the feeling that came with its sudden exposure.

Mogens slapped on a smarmy grin and winked in Jesper’s direction which prompted the man to open the door. In which, he came face to face with the ugly rearing on a flash storm. And he would normally just risk it to get away from the ferry (‘no, you wouldn’t,’ Jesper’s brain supplemented), but he hadn’t dropped off the envelopes after today’s walk, so…

Mogens’s snaggletooth smirk widened ever so slightly while Jesper’s skin tone turned a few shades whiter. “Heh. Looks like we’ll be together for a little longer.”

_February 18th _

“Hello Mr. Postman! What’s on the ol’ royal agenda today?”

Mogens had dropped by Jesper’s new home unexpectedly with what seemed to be a large jug of some alcoholic drink; although, nothing like the delightful sherry Jesper once enjoyed on his tongue during some of those dreadful events or fundraisers for something. There was always a fundraiser for charity or whatnot and his father always made him attend those things, but alas his new home was Smeerensburg.

What a strange thought. _Home_… Months ago, Jesper would’ve considered the giant estate filled with servants and the lax irrelevancy of effort as his home, but after Christmas, after the changes in the town came—changing how he considered life there—Jesper couldn’t imagine living with his father the same way as he could easily before.

Life back then was easy, but this was much more interesting.

And, Jesper supposed that Mogens occasionally hopping by to irritate him also came along with his newfound life here. (Although, secretly, the mailman enjoyed that playful back and forth between them like a puzzle clicking into place.)

“I am done with my duties today, but I’m sure you’re putting yours off. What are you doing here?”

Mogens laughed and answered, “Hey! I was just thinking you could use a break, and lookie here… I had this bottle still stored in my pantry and… You connecting the dots? Or are you going to keep that blank look on.”

“Uh huh… And, you’re here, because?”

“Well, pardon me, your Highness—just because you don’t commiserate with the common folk doesn’t mean you have to be isolated from the rest of society.” Mogens turned away in mock hurt.

“Oh fine, just…” Jesper sighed and motioned him from the window flap to the front door. “Try not to make a mess of things.”

Jesper’s new house came along as a late present from the lonely lumberjack in the woods, Klaus; the project for its construction came along when the old man discovered that his new partner in crime slept in the ‘sorry excuse of a post office’ (well, nowadays, the office’s glowing from its new paintjob and reworking to fix the damage of time passing) that seemed to substitute as a makeshift chicken coop.

The house wasn’t necessarily the largest but was double-storied and painted in a lovely navy. It stood proudly on the outskirts of the town while still within close range to the post office and the town. Although it would take a while for Jesper to travel up to Klaus’s home, isolated within the forest, Jesper made it a goal to visit the Toymaker every week.

“Yes, of course, Princess; anything you command.”

Jesper scowled as the captain cheerfully came up to the kitchen, already searching for glasses to pour the moonshine in. Jesper closed the door and went up the cupboard to grab the two glasses.

“Just one drink, okay?”

Mogens just snorted and poured. The glasses transforming from empty to full in seconds, looking refreshing to the seaman but an omen to the mailman.

They clicked cups and said their cheers—Mogens, a playful lilt; and Jesper, resignation—and downed the hooch. The clear liquid burnt down along the younger man’s throat and coughed, wincing from the sensation. Mogens could see the red on the postman’s face flush and grinned.

_March 5th_

Jesper and Klaus had a thing going: every week, there would be a dinner or games night between the two. Or rather, it had originally begun with just those two, but Alva had eventually heard about the whole thing and heckled Jesper for not inviting her until he saw the error his ways. Not that Jesper actually disliked Alva’s presence, but rather it came from a thoughtless remnant of his youth of never extending invitations himself. So, dinner or game night became a regular event between the three.

Klaus heard the knock on the door at around six o’clock and was greeted by Jesper tailed by the seadog, almost looking leashed to the other by how close Mogens was to the mailman’s back.

“Hey Klaus! Uhm, so today it seems we’ll be joined by Mogens. You remember him, right? Back when we were delivering the sled to the Sámi,” introduced Jesper.

“Yes, I remember,” answered Klaus as he waved them into the house.

Mogens gave a grin as Klaus realised the ferryman was holding a casserole that still seemed warm from the smoke trailing to the outside wilderness.

“Since this is my first time coming, I just thought I’d make something as a peace offering.”

Jesper scrunched up his eyebrows, contorted in confusion. “Peace offering?”

“I don’t want to anger your fiancé, that’s all,” Mogens smoothly replied. “Coming in with another man? How _scandalous_, princess.”

Klaus just coughed in shock while the postman shouted something incomprehensible. Mogens placed the casserole on the kitchen counter and turned around. “Well, Jespy ol’ boy; did I do good?” The ferryman batted his eyelids.

As Jesper began to argue with Mogens’s nonsense, Klaus just blinked owlishly. As the conflict continued to unfold before Klaus, the door once again pounded and Alva shouted, “Are you guys going to open up? Hello?”

Alva, in turn, was holding a lovely berry pie that smelt as sugary as it would be good. She puffed, “I’ve been knocking for a good minute now. Is today not the dinner?” The teacher strolled in while badgering the older man.

“Yes; it’s today, but…”

“Is that… Mogens? What are you doing here?” Alva was baffled by the ferryman’s appearance.

Mogens gave a good chuckle before waving broadly to Alva as if he were an ambivalent bride bidding a bittersweet farewell over to their seafaring husband, off to face the tremendous sea and the metaphorical embodiment of the force of nature.

Jesper saw his overly enacted hand wave and turned around to see Alva still gripping onto her pie wafting along like the lovely wire connection of two telephone cups. And, he slipped over from his argument with Mogen to confide in Alva’s wisdom.

“Long story short: Mogens’s eating with us for dinner. What’s the chances of our survival? Mentally,” whispered Jesper.

While raising her eyebrow, Alva stated, “It’ll be fine; don’t overreact.”

The three—Jesper, Alva, and Klaus—turned around to see Mogens sat at one of the seats, already dealing out a deck of card that he must’ve pulled out of his coat.

“Let’s have a game.” Mogens winked.

The game is brutal for both Jesper and Alva—both for reasons of just not having that poker mindset or attitude. Jesper would get abysmal hands every single round and no one could discern why while Alva had the tendency to be too expressive over the status of their cards. Klaus was a mystery, both as a person but also as a card player. Mogens couldn’t ever ascertain what the old man ever had or their intents, but Mogens still rose up to the challenge and won about more than half of the games.

And, before they knew it, time had slipped by and Klaus’s own bake came out of the oven and onto the dinner table along with the other assortments. Although Jesper was used to just Alva and Klaus’s company, he found that seeing Mogens beside him on the dinner table wasn’t something he was _entirely_ opposed to. When his and Mogens’s leg bumped into each other—other than the first time with Mogens smirking at him—they kept silent about it and kept on eating and chatting. 

_May 1st _

After some time, the weekly gatherings at Klaus’s place turned into a clockwork, organised process of toy creation—which went miserable during the first couple sessions which they tried to figure out _what_ their pros were in regard to the cog-work system.

Jesper, although the most experienced out of the Alva and Mogens, could not do handicraft work, except for the finer details in which his paints and brushes became something magical and transformed wood grain into holly, navy, and jade. The paint station unofficially became _his_ work station as the brushes laid strewn across the table.

Alva’s skills came about the broader idea of the blueprints, so whittling the chunk of wood or sticks was an unexpected breeze even to the schoolteacher.

Mogens was sloppy, unrefined, and old enough to ache from every swing of the axe to half the lumber. Therefore, Klaus delegated him onto construction of the wooden pieces. Piece A with Part Two and attached to Leg 3 came the unpainted ballerina figure, ready to begin their Nutcracker dance.

Although the paint station was left alone except for Jesper’s efforts to decorate and glaze each wood piece, Mogens often brought his assembly upon the table, taking up the opposite side of the table.

Their relative silence, ignoring the common workshop noises and racket, slept easily among them.

_May 13th _

Eventually Mogens and Jesper had came upon an agreement to meet each other a couple times in the month. (Originally, it had been once a month. Then, biweekly. Now, it came to an ambiguous case of “whenever you’re free” as Mogens had said.) Jesper appreciated their rapport during their bickering, conversations, and what other verbal escapades they shared, but recently there was a jagged awkwardness bloated between them—something that edged on something that felt dangerous if it ever to be spoken about, as if oxygen was the catalyst to an impending explosion. Both of them recognised that they had inadvertently crossed into a war zone and landmines surrounded them. Their conversations were kept light and slick as if anything terse and meaningful would detonate the world around them from its pressure.

This time was Jesper’s turn to travel to the other’s home for a lunch, and he brought along a pasta salad, whipped up the day prior. To be honest, Jesper hadn’t a clue on what to bring for a lunch since he had grown up with a butler to his every whim and he had only learned to rely on the marketplace with its deli and other sellers.

The ferry swelled and wobbled for a small second before the postman zipped for the door leading into Mogens’s resting space.

Mogens had previously explained to the mailman about his living situation when Jesper had asked during one of their drinking sessions. The seaman owned his personal house—furnished with proper appliances and utilities for the house’s stature—but due to his job as the ferryman for Smeerensburg and mainland, he chose to spend his nights in the cabin under the ferry itself rather than look for housing back when the feud between the Krums and Ellingboes was still fiery.

Ducking into the small residence of one mischievous ferryman, Jesper noticed that Mogens was lying in bed rather than waiting by the table or fixing something up on the stove.

‘Maybe he took a nap while waiting,’ Jesper thought, approaching Mogens, turned towards the wall, shielding their face from the entrance.

But when the blond started shaking the lump, Jesper’s throat clamped up and a bountiful hole ripped open in his stomach, devouring any warmth from his body. He shook harder, trying to garner a response from the body.

“Hey, hey. Mogens—are you okay?”

The lump turned over, but Jesper wasn’t brought back to relaxation as he hoped; instead, Jesper found that the flushed red face, sunken bags, and fatigue roughing Mogens’s entire being caused him to fret ever more.

“Oh jeez! Are you sick?”—Jesper slapped his forehead and muttered to himself—“Oh—of course, he is, you idiot.”

Jesper pressed the back of his hand onto Mogens’s forehead and the man hissed from either pain or relief to the sudden cold. Jesper just took it as relief since the older man was just radiating heat like the sun had sprung a leak.

Immediately, the postman swore to the duty of taking care of the ferryman and leapt into some half-mashed memories of previous fevers and unreliable recalls of miscellaneous textbooks back when his father shoved him into tutoring.

One: grab a towel and wet it. Except, he didn’t know where anything was kept even after the many weeks of visiting Mogens and his residence. Which was a problem for Two, Three, and the other many numbers Jesper could count.

Jesper quickly took to searching the cabinets and fridge for things to aid with Mogens’s sickness. ‘Clean’ towel: on the dining table. Medicine: nope. Broth or stock: nada. Ingredients for a soup: limited and, frankly, probably unusable.

It was early enough in the day that if he were to travel to the marketplace now, the rinky-dink pharmacy would still be open for grabbing some sort of syrup or pill (as well as the items for the other things). Grabbing the towel and wetting it with cold water, Jesper laid it neatly on top of the balding man’s forehead and, leaning down, Jesper whispered to the even now unconscious Mogens to rest well.

_May 14th _

The syrup went down Mogens’s throat during the small period of feverish hallucination-soaked consciousness—which wasn’t ideal but Jesper knew he had to use the tiny sliver of time to get Mogens to swallow the acrid, red tinted liquid. The chicken soup (that he half-remembered the recipe of—Alva, confused, had gave him a strict and precise list of instructions that went over the soup’s creation so that he wouldn’t burn down Mogens’s ferry (although he kept that a secret from Alva)) had been ready for consumption, but Mogens, mumbling incomprehensible nonsense, had fallen back into his deep slumber.

April had been a rain festival, and it didn’t necessarily shock Jesper that Mogens had gotten sick.

Peeking outside the door, Jesper noticed that the sun had finally went down and the stars had taken reign of the sky, blipping their inconstruable language. It’s funny, in some cosmic way.

Although his father had tried his best in straightening out his son, Jesper didn’t think that _this_ would be outcome of what he once considered as the ‘Worse-Thing-Ever-DAD!’ Not that Jesper truly hated his father; Mr. Johansson was very much the spoiling-type before he realised that pampering to Jesper’s every needs and whim caused the blond to be a self-centred, unaspiring mid-twenties adult.

So, here he was. In Smeerensburg. But not unhappy. Funny.

Jesper ducked back inside the cabin and took up a dining chair and faced Mogens’s resting body. Peace and calm merged with Mogens’s face which usually took on an eclectic passion, unusual energy, laziness, or just this _tiredness. _Mogens just looked normal and at rest.

Remaining quiet, he just watched the ferryman. Jesper decided the man could use some proper silence and kept mum. The noise could come after.

In the early morning, Jesper heard a rustling coming from the bed—scratchy and squeaking—and woke up to Mogens, now back to regular skin-tone. The candle on the dining table had melted down a puddle in its holder, while a empty bowl sat lonely on the counter. A blanket from who-knows-where curled along his aching body. ‘A wooden kitchen chair was never meant to be slept on,’ shouted the postman’s back.

Mogens must’ve gotten up during the night but was now resting calmly again.

Getting up, his back shouted its protests, but Jesper, foggy-brained, leaned down anyway, kissing Mogens on the forehead. And the captain snorted in his dreams and murmured a soft: “Love you, too.”

Too low for anyone else to hear except for Jesper, looming above.

Too soft for the waking.

Funny-ached, butterflied, Jesper decided to leave a note on a scrap of paper, replacing any spoken words he wanted to say at the time. He headed home.

_Get well soon. - J_

Noon, Jesper figured the red flush and warmth bleeding from his neck and cheeks are from catching the other’s fever. Even still, when it’s evening yet again, he felt warm, but not overly so—all but cozy.

_May 30th _

“Hey Alva.”

She hummed with a lilt, signalling the other to continue with whatever they were going to say.

Jesper drummed his fingers along the pub’s bar, glancing at the small beer spill that hadn’t been quite wiped away—the bartender had made their way to clean it up, but got interrupted by a Krum’s appearance on a barstool, so the rag kept the lonely puddle company.

Alva just glanced at Jesper’s general direction, but, as the silence continued, Alva slowly fully turned to face the mailman. Knowing something weighty must be in the other’s head, the schoolteacher kept silent even if a nugget of irritation lodged itself in her throat—wanting to badger the blond.

“How…”

Reaching for the glass to sip on the cheap wine, Alva tried to helpfully push Jesper into spilling, “How, what? You’re going to have to continue your question if you want my thoughts.”

“Okay, okay; just… It’s kind of a stupid question.”

Alva laughed, “Ha! Okay, I teach the children of Smeerensburg—and many of these children haven’t been taught for years—and while I’m not _supposed_ to say this, I’m sure I’ve heard a question much ‘stupider’ before.”

Jesper looked like a frog before croaking—that small sliver of time of tension before the echoing serenades of a frog were voiced—“How do you know if you like someone?” he blurted.

Alva paused.

“Who is it?” she asked, point-blank.

Then she backtracked: “Wait, sorry. Don’t answer; I won’t dig into it.”

Jesper’s spiked up shoulders deflated which Alva took as a good sign. His wandering eyes still remained trained on the spill, but Alva didn’t press.

He sighed, “Thanks.”

“Just to clarify: when you say ‘like’, you mean love, right?”

Silence.

“Alright… Okay, I’ll just go over a few hypotheticals since love’s a pretty broad subject.”—Alva twisted her fork in the spaghetti, just lumping it into a small ball—“Everyone experiences love differently; I’m sure if you had asked Klaus, it’d be pretty different from the newest married couple in town,” she laughed.

She quieted for a second before continuing.

“It’s like… if you swallowed all of the world’s butterflies and they kept on fluttering every time you thought of them.

“If your thoughts have ever just wandered directly to them, even when you’re doing the must mundane thing. Like thinking that they’d like this candle scent, they would want to see whatever discovery you made that day, or things like that.

“If you find that even when they’re not there, your heart aches and hurts, searching for that elusive person. You desire, specifically search for their comfort, their highs and lows, them in their entirety.”

Jesper curled his fingers around a cool, condensating mug of beer, gumming over the words, feeling the definitions pitter-patter on his sternum like some pendulum clock. (A funny, little blueprint made by Mogens of a kitschy toy made for no reproduction.)

In that inexplicable but obvious nonsensical matters of the world—that feeling when human interaction repeats and repeats and repeats and history never remains quite in the past—he now knew Alva was speaking from experience. If the words themselves weren’t enough, the tone gravitating towards the woman spoke the truth as she stared directly at him.

“Did you love me?” Jesper properly _looks_ at Alva, as if seeing her properly for the first time.

A part of her hair swept across her face and Jesper saw the turmoil waging war in her eyes. For a moment, he contended with the idea of brushing the lock away, fixing it, but tossed the thought away, knowing he would be hurting the other with the brainless action. There was an unsaid story within her explanation of love, and he understood if he continued to prod Alva further, there was going to be a crack in the mirror. An irreparable chip between them.

Alva puts on a falling smile. “That’s a stupid question.”

“Yeah. It is. Sorry.”

Love was weapon, Jesper finally understood. His father had loved his mother so much. He could remember the small stories about their devotion to each other from the many maids, servants, chefs in their grand estate. And although his father loved him a lot, his affection and love were never whole. The crack in his father’s heart could never be salvaged properly once his mother had died during childbirth. And through Jesper’s lacking return of sentiment, his father grew thorns and prickly disappointment.

Even if Jesper shouldn’t be comforted by Alva’s admission, he found a sickening solace to the fact someone understood that damned word, _love_. That bleeding hearts hurt_. _He gripped the mug harder as Alva brought the fork to her mouth, swallowing.

The utensil swung out sharp, glinting a spectacle white.

_June 17th _

Lately, Jesper’s been concerned about Mogens, and despite how unprofessional it was to let his mind wander during his morning shifts—especially if the subject was the ferryman—Jesper just couldn’t get his head together to focus on organising these damn letters. Jesper wasn’t ready to say or even _think_ about the _l-_word. He was contented enough to leave it as some sort of ambiguous amenity towards the captain.

Sort of contented. It was hard to describe.

He knew it was better the leave the box alone, closed, isolated, and ignored in some attic part of his brain, but Jesper was constantly _aware_ of it—looming, lurking, just there in the corner of his brain. He couldn’t leave it alone. He knew he would crack and eventually try ruminating through the mess. So, focusing on his work was the easy solution. Except, it wasn’t easy, because he couldn’t _think_.

A knock comes from the side of the room which shocks Jesper back into awareness and that he hadn’t been doing anything on his desk for a good couple minutes and he was going to fall back on his work. The chickens which had a new coop upstairs rustled and clucked their disagreements to the sudden noise before quieting.

Jesper turned his head to the side to see Mogens, leaning on the windowsill with a smug pip in his eye.

“G’day Princess Johansson. How art thou?” Mogens spouted.

Jesper sputtered.

“Jeez, Your Highness, settle down. Just a joke.” He rested his head onto his palm.

Mogens just waited calmly before Jesper tried to settle his nerves into a seemingly unused energy.

“Yeah, just a joke. Sorry.” Jesper focused on Mogens’s captain hat. “Did you need something?”

“Just the outgoing mailbag,” Mogens nodded towards the back.

Even though he didn’t feel quite as if he had it together, Jesper replied back, “Got it.”

_July 10th _

Jesper followed down the familiar staircase down the hills over to the placid waters—the ferry swaying stout and proud. Today’s visit was a dinner, and in his arms was a delectable strawberry pie that he had to beg and prod Alva to make for him. (This was exceptionally necessary if he didn’t want to smoke out the entirety of his home with a bad bake. If there was one thing time wouldn’t aid Jesper with, it would be cooking or baking or anything in the kitchen.)

Although it had been months since Mogens’s fever back in May, Jesper always had this unnerving apprehension whenever arriving for their hangouts at Mogens’s home. As if he would see the older man in a vulnerable position again. The thought tugged at Jesper’s sternum, pull-pull-pull, attempting to open his chest cavity wide.

Jesper knocked at the cabin door, waiting for Mogens’s shout to come in. When he didn’t hear the ferryman’s invitation almost immediately, Jesper’s heart skipped a beat before quacking up like a racer who had missed the bullet shot to start.

“Just get it here, princess! Do you need me to open the door for you or something?” Mogens shouted from the boundaries of the door.

Jesper released a sigh of relief and smiled as he swung the door inwards. Greeted with the bright face of Mogens, Jesper’s day was already lighting up as he set the pie on the table.

The table was decorated with a small spread of sandwich condiments and ingredients, sun dappling Mogens’s captain hat, eyes crinkled from laughing. Wonder subtly orbed the mood around the table as the ferryman carefully constructed a towering pillar of a sandwich.

Mogens’s smiles felt like a new addiction for the mailman. Cut off from the exhilaration of present delivery during the dead of night, Jesper found that he kept pressing Mogens into laughter and those wonderful smiles—especially the smaller ones that felt organically raw and honest. Brutal in the sense it was _real._

Jesper was addicted to the lightheaded, funny-boned sensation that prickled his skin—releasing a terribly funny happiness to his bones.

Jesper blurted it out before his brain could block the invading thought, “I love you.”

Oh fuck.

Mogens first paused before immediately cracking up, laughing uncontrollably, then he chortled, “HAH! You got me for a second there. Phew!” He flicked the imaginary tear away from his eyes, before easily glancing over to Jesper, whose eyes widened in shame and embarrassment and disappointment.

It was then when Mogens understood that something wasn’t right. He scrutinized the royal, used-to-be stuck up and haughty postman and realised he made a mistake. No, the confession wasn’t a rug being pulled under his feet, it wasn’t a joke made to ridicule Mogens. It was something earnest, honest, and real in ways that he hadn’t been for so long, for so many years. It was too much.

“I can’t.”

Jesper was immediately brought out of his anxious head and saw the tense fists, shaking, attached to Mogens’s wrist. Sitting, Mogens was otherwise motionless—slouched and crooked—battling something on the threshold of an implosion. The light in the ferryman’s eyes dulled like when the crinkled tube of white paint ran out and the doll’s pupils stared blackhole-d at him.

“Why—“

“I just can’t!” shouted Mogens, bleeding of irritation and fury. Like the tube of paint Jesper would drop and Mogens would accidentally step on it—the thick paste squirting out like toothpaste. Except, the paint only flows until it’s empty.

Deflated, Mogens slowly repeated, “I just… can’t…” The ferryman dropped his tight grasp, knuckles recolouring back to flesh. Just as Jesper had dropped his gaze, Mogens couldn’t keep his eyes focussed on the postman and instead focussed on the calendar on the wall, two months behind with occasional x’s crossing out the dates. “You”—Mogens paused to sigh—"Should go,” he continued.

Jesper doesn’t cry when he runs out of the ferry in shock. He just doesn’t.

He doesn’t feel a thing.

He doesn’t know

A.

Damn.

Thing.

_July 21st _

That comfortable, easy to swallow silence became a stifling little enemy pounding away at Jesper’s mind. The welcoming workshop transformed into a battle zone—explosives lined the wooden planks, cannons rang instead of Klaus’s axe hit, hit, hitting the logs outside, quiet became the ominous signal of a storm to come. Except, except, there wasn’t a point in all this warning; except, it was all Jesper’s fault that this was going on. Except, he brought on this internal tempest swelling onto Mogens and Alva and Klaus, who was outside avoiding the stifling quiet he once found comfortable.

Because, he screwed up.

Alva continued whittling on the batch of doll parts—legs, arms, head, accessories—creating man from wood, making god out of her fingers. Mogens was still here, and that’s the most surprising thing to Jesper. That even if he screwed things up, Mogens was still assembling the parts, Mogens was still in the same space as he was, Mogens was still tolerating the toxic gases-atmosphere Jesper exuded.

Mogens, Mogens, _Mogens. _Jesper’s thoughts were constantly obsessed with the confession and of the man and he couldn’t flick the switch off as he could easily for a lamp.

His fingers slipped and the brush went sideways, and the face of the doll turned robin’s egg blue, blush clashing to the eclectic colour. Jesper huffed, staring at the mistake. And got up, exiting through the front door for some air.

Summer’s sun felt warm and perfect for a day’s relaxation. A picnic perhaps, or a luncheon, or a nice catching up. Summer’s sun felt better than the cold within the workshop. The birdhouses attached the to the nearby wilderness tickled its own ivory and birdsong melody sang out.

For a little longer, he wanted things to go back. To go back then.

_August 23rd _

Jesper crossed through town, collecting the donations and freebies that the townspeople passed onto him even though it had been close to a full year since his arrival. He received such things as the lingonberry jam bottle, or a small slice of a tart he was munching on. He had finished his day at the office and was walking over to visit the old man in the woods, hoping to catch up for a proper conversation—with just the two of them.

Passing through the town centre, the postman spotted Alva in the window of the local inn, sitting at the on a barstool. Figuring he’d just say hello, he strolled over to the sill.

Except he doesn’t say hello or wave. Instead he sees Alva chatting with Mogens, and he feels his throat clog up like the straw stuffed into the chicken nests.

Mogens had recently started skipping the weekly Klaus visits and other than for work reasons, Jesper hadn’t seen the captain. Their seemingly daily visits spread into a dull nothingness and the blond could see that he screwed up.

But, Jesper doesn’t see Mogens’s exaggerated, languid motions—rather, a taut solitude in their conversation. And, immediately, Jesper feels like he had stepped into the very private moments of a man. That he overstepped into where no one should be.

That he overstepped his boundaries with the ferryman.

Jesper returns from the windowsill and heads into the woods like he’s supposed to do.

When meeting Klaus, Jesper doesn’t bother mentioning seeing Alva and Mogens. He doesn’t want to ruin the mood of the evening. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to overstep.

_September 29th _

Alva had revealed Jesper half an hour before Mogens was going to departure about the fact the mischievous, sarcastic, annoying, wonderful captain was going. Going and leaving them behind. Alva was probably sworn to keep it as a secret, but Jesper could see a rough-edged urgency in the honey-orbed brown eyes of hers. Jesper swallowed. He could tell that she knew about Jesper’s situation but was being perfectly open about it. She knew he was hopelessly in love with the town’s ferryman. That she _lost_ to Mogens. For every funny thing that the universe spouts, there wasn’t anything funny about the whole thing.

“Go.”

And, before he knew it, his legs started pacing, running, chugging along the hilltops and the staircase down to the pier. As town became blue skies, became seatide, Jesper’s golden locks flapped wildly about—his uniform hat taut in his grip. And in front of him, Jesper saw Mogens standing alone on the ferry. Before he knew it, Jesper got on top of the boat and confronted the other, looking at him.

“Stay a little longer,” begged Jesper. Surprised that he _actually_ vocalised his thoughts, Jesper clammed up—hand to mouth—and steps back as if in shock.

Mirroring Jesper, Mogens distanced himself from the other, internalising the other man’s words and the implications, and as much as he wanted to say okay or yes or anything, he stayed quiet.

Better to rip the bandage quick rather than let the wound fester underneath.

Mogens just looked at Jesper from atop the ferry and although his throat tickled from the impending urgency of _want_. The want to speak, the want to answer, the want to settle into the unadulterated train wreck of it all. Mogens knew if he were to acquiesce to the _need, need, need_ aching his bones, there wouldn’t be anything left of the man in front of him. He had too much baggage. Too much of everything.

Instead he compromised: “You and I both know I can’t do that, sweetheart.” He internally cringed at the pet name. Not the place; not the time.

“I have to get back.” Mogens looked away once again.

“What about Christmas?” Jesper piped up out of nowhere.

“What of it?”

“We were going to expand our present delivery-region, and… We need you for it.”

Mogens stared right into Jesper’s eyes, searching for something, _something _he didn’t quite know. Uncertain of what he found, Mogens answered, “The interim ferryman will take over as I deal with my thing.” A pause. “I’ll be back before Christmas,” rolling a ball of lint between his thumb and index.

This was temporary. The same way the way clothes would wear away through the passage of time. The same way the lint from his pocket flew out of his fingers to fly into the ocean’s tides. The way he was only supposed to be in Smeerensburg for only a decade, then he would be moving onto other piers, quays, wharfs, and port around the world. Then disillusionment came, and he found himself settling into his disgusting skin and flesh, because the decade contractual deal suddenly became his lifetime. Except then a letter came months ago. For reassignment. For something he left in the past unattended for.

Even if he wasn’t supposed to be back for Christmas. He’d try it. It’d be a temporary solution. Temporary as in his first and last marriage with the darling of a girl back in the city when she would visit him at the docks. Temporary as in the litter of scars and the gash on his body during his tiny stint out in the harsher wilds of the sea. Temporary as in the way time passed without a care, without allowing anyone’s intervention, without him.

This was temporary.

Oh, so temporary.

_October 31st _

The inn exploded with Halloween decoration and some jack-o’-lanterns guarded the doorway into the bar. Uncarved pumpkins kept watch on top of the limited space of the bar counters as did the numerable spills of beer and hard liquor. Cotton cobwebs kept the regular spiderwebs company during the night in the nooks and crannies of the ceiling and walls. The children of the inn owners must’ve attached the paper ghosts onto the wall due to the more… liberal concept of colouring within the lines, plus the strange crayon colour choices.

Halloween meant Smeerensburg drank. The entirety of the bar was filled with Krums and Ellingboes alike. (Alva had told him, when entering, “Before the feud ended, this holiday was one of the only days that the two parties wouldn’t actively fight each other—the other being New Year’s. Or, well, not when they were sober enough to think rationally.” She grimaced.) And, hell to it all, Jesper had found the mood infectious and sneaked Alva away from her isolated spot in the school, working on the next month’s teaching plan, and into the drinking fest.

Seeing people become inebriated meant he wanted to jump right in and catch up—no matter what Alva tried to warn him. It’s a local tradition, right?

Jesper kept drinking. As if he were a sailor himself, he got drunk. Drunk as hell. He got so drunk that Alva, his drinking partner, morphed and shifted into a melting bubble of brown-honey eyes and he kept giggling, absorbed into the absurdity of the matter, except it didn’t matter. It never mattered. No matter what he did.

One mug of beer became six, became maybe fourteen or fifteen. He hadn’t been counting, but maybe he should’ve because Alva kept looking at him with those eyes and they were so full of pity and doubt and, and… Jesper closed his eyes, not wanting to see anything.

He wanted everything to wash away into blurry emptiness.

“C’mon, get up. As your drinking friend, it’s my sworn duty to _not_ have you pass out on the bar.”

Blearily scrunching his eyes, Jesper saw Alva signal the bartender for a glass of water. And expecting her to help him sip it, Jesper opens his jaw, only for Alva to splash half of the water on top his head.

“That should wake you up a bit more,” the teacher said before signalling for a top-up.

Jesper almost lurches out of the seat, ready to vault away to safety, but Alva just clacks the glass on the bar noisily. “Drink some water. You’re going to need all the help you can get for tomorrow’s hangover.”

A fierce petulance washed Jesper as he began to refuse to follow along; after all, wasn’t he just mortally betrayed just a second ago?

Jesper pouted, “No.”

“No?” Raising an eyebrow, she crossed her arms.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Oh really… I’m giving you one more chance,” said Alva, raising that one eyebrow even higher.

Jesper seemed to finally weigh the two options, but still his liquor-addled brain still decided to stick his head away and grumped pettily, “No.”

Alva just rubbed her hand on her forehead, trying to mitigate the oncoming headache from the nuisance of a mid-twenties man. “Have it your way.”

Experiencing that sweet taste of victory, Jesper calls for another mug of beer while Alva looked on, incredulously.

_December 1st _

The next morning tasted like misery and defeat. Oh god. Why did he drink that much? Why didn’t he stop and reconsider the consequences?

Jesper leaned over from the bed and threw up into a metal bucket. Thankfully Alva had at least babied him somewhat otherwise he would’ve had to evacuate the bed in search of a receptacle for the puke. And in his condition, Jesper didn’t think he could even manage one sole step before dizzyingly falling to the ground and curling up to avoid the headache.

His head was pounding away as a woodpecker to log. The nausea came drumming its own ostentatious beat, lending to Jesper’s morning-repetition: head over bed, then into bucket.

Shit. This was tiring.

Finally getting out of the bed and seeing himself in the mirror, Jesper could only sight the blotchy, sallow skin and the puffy, red-tinged eyes that stared directly back into him. Into the cold, empty pit searching for substance.

And, he didn’t want to see that. To see that disappointing version of himself amalgamate into his very being. To see himself waste away like love does to others. To see love’s insidious nature _win._

Maybe for the first time, he decided to be the mature one and gave up on Mogens.

Bleeding hearts _hurt_. This wasn’t meant to be.

It wouldn’t happen no matter how long he tried to be patient.

It hurt.

_December 3rd _

Mogens found himself lacking something. It’s been a couple months and he was tired of it all. The busy and bustle of the city was driving him insane after all the years enjoying the comforts of living in the ferry. Noise in the raw form of it and it was nuts. The only salvation he found in his new urban environment was the readily availability of bookstores, and his old slim pickings of _Moby Dick_ and _Gulliver’s Travels_ became _Jane Eyre, Heart of Darkness, _and_ Pride and Prejudice. _Not to mention the bookshelf littered with other titles he hadn’t stocked onto the ferryboat when he was originally staffed.

Thinking about situation he ran away from back in Smeerensburg was not a salvation, but rather an iron maiden. Every time his thoughts crawled towards Jesper and the unresolved nature of it all, Mogens felt his head itch.

But he was returning soon. For better or for worse, he was going back.

_December 10th_

Jesper’s energy was revitalised. The menial task of sorting through the seemingly millions of lettered addressed to Klaus for their Christmas surprise was suddenly bright and exciting and as aspiring as it was last year. That Christmas spirit that had haunted around him finally enveloped his body.

Noon: the interim ferryman came around and he finally had the bags ready in time for him, nudging the man towards the back to grab them. They were youthful and muscular enough that he wouldn’t need the blond man’s help other than opening the door.

After, Jesper started feeding the empty bags with the mountain of Christmas envelopes. Alva soon swung by for lunch, carrying some deli sandwiches into the post office, signalling him to get off that chair and into some subs. Jesper smiled and locked the door behind them.

The lock clicked and they make way through the town.

Later that night, Jesper and Alva went to Klaus’s workshop and fixed up more toys with the Saami adults. The smell of hot cocoa scented the air in the building as snow set the holiday scene. Klaus’s booming _Ho-ho-ho _built Jesper’s heart aglow, enjoying the simple domesticity of it all. Things were going well. Things were going right.

_December 15th _

As the new ferryman brought the boat along to the mainland, Mogens nodded towards his former-successor. “Well, sorry for taking the ol’ job back.”

“It’s fine. I just don’t get why everybody seemed to apologise to me when I got assigned here.”

“Oh—you missed the sweet times when the battle bell used to be in action,” Mogens snorted.

“The ‘Battle Bell’?” The man looked confused.

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Leave the past in the past. You’ve got the rest of your life to find somewhere better now,” chuckled the youthful, newly-instated ferryman, patting his rotund belly. “This old seadog’s gonna be here for a while longer.”

Mogens took his time to cross the waters over to Smeerensburg, fearing for everything he had left unresolved to come up at once. The aimless smock of fog cleared way for the shape of land to appear, and in the far distance, Mogens could spot a trio waiting at the docks, standstill.

Mogens’s talk with Alva was a relieving reintroduction back into Smeerensburg and the people he begrudgingly cared about. As they chatted easily, Jesper’s presence was still in the back of his head, but Jesper was still discussing something with the mysterious woodsman. Mogens’s friendship with Alva was always an easy, comforting thing and he was glad to see time hadn’t rusted the bond.

Afterwards, unexpectedly, Klaus began talking to him. Although, expectedly, Klaus was still the rough, awkward talker he remembered the older man being. Klaus lightly discussed about the plan for Christmas before Alva eventually dragged the woodsman for a ‘private talk’, even though Mogens could easily see through Alva’s thinly veiled words. And as quickly as Mogens’s talk with Klaus was, the time until Alva and Klaus’s disappearance met it.

Jesper—impossibly bordering between looking relaxed and tense—still stood there glancing at Mogens before sending a small smile.

Mogens awkwardly greeted, “Hey,” not knowing where he stood with the postman.

“Hey,” Jesper, trying to warm up, shoved his cold fingers into the coat’s pockets.

“It’s been a while.”

“Yeah…”

Mogens’s gathered up all the strength within him—or at least the small shredding remains of it—and spoke up again, “About that time… When I confessed… I—” Mogens fell silent, unsure of how to put his thoughts together.

Jesper straightened up and stood stiffer but didn’t seem as if he would jet.

Mogens sighed and tried looking into Jesper’s eyes, and suddenly everything welled up within his cramped ribcage—a pounding resounded in his skull. Mogens stared directly at Jesper’s large, ruddy nose, pristine teeth, seemingly glowing locks, and that fierce and magical spark in his eyes.

Mogens’s silence stood for a few more beats before he continued, “I suck at talking.”

Trying for the comedic route, Jesper replied, “You sure do,” raising his eyebrow. Jesper caught a laugh bubble out of Mogens, surprised at himself.

Sighing, Mogens closed his eyes and figured out what he wanted to do.

“Do me a favour.”

“Hm?” Jesper looked interested in this seemingly new turn of events.

“Close your eyes”

“My eyes?”

“Yep,” Mogens said, popping the p, giving a wide grin. As Jesper, amused, slowly did as Mogens asked, the captain mumbled, “This might explain my feelings better.”

Mogens let a second pass to help his mixed-up emotions settle before he stepped towards the blond man. And, Mogens kissed Jesper, furiously, explosively, entirely. Like the time would listen to him for once, like time slowed down and Springtime came to reveal nature’s beauty, like he actually lived in the moment.

Jesper doesn’t resist, but as their lips connected, Mogens slowly realised that the postman wasn’t reciprocating back that same fervent vivacity as he was. Backing away, Mogens saw Jesper looking back at him and instead of happiness, joy, or whatever the captain half-expected in his foggy brain, Jesper was terrified.

Regaining some sense of mobility over his limbs, Jesper weakly pushed the mailman away—Mogens, agitated and out of it, allowed himself to be shoved aside.

And before Mogens could summon the strength to say anything, Jesper, distressed, ran away. The ferry swayed slowly with the ocean’s careless machinations. The air tasted salty and empty.

_December 16th _

“We can just forget about it. Start fresh, y’know.”

Mogens’s speech suddenly failed him. He wanted to refute, but he couldn’t move. Mogens felt useless. In his mind, a storm brewed chaos and shame.

“Wait ‘til after Christmas, alright?” Jesper said, patting Mogens’s shoulder. “That’s when we can talk.” He put on a kind smile.

Mogens raised his head sharply after that, but Jesper was already turning away to the stairs up to a pathway, towards the postal office.

Mogens had originally interrupted Jesper while he was onwards to work, but Jesper walked away as if _he_ was the one to approach. Mogens just stood there as the other disappeared over the staircase.

Then, he was gone. The echoes of winter’s wind swept along the snow-dressed streets, pushing and pushing his body towards the missing man. But he kept his stand on the cold, hard tiles.

_December 25th _

When it’s only Klaus on the ferry this time, Mogens doesn’t say much but helped load the sleigh onto the boat. ‘Until after Christmas,’ he kept repeating.

It’s nice seeing the multitudes of presents hanging around the entrances of the Saami people’s homes. It was a comforting sight, one that made him ache in a terribly obnoxious way.

Seeing the stars twinkle in the right intensity, Mogens heard the wind echo around him, reminding him the lonely nights he spent staring out at the sky with a full moon. The lonely nights that seemed to end just this year and came back with full force. The moon provided no warmth.

His breath stained his sight with a painterly white. “Until after Christmas,” he muttered under his breath, directionless.

_December 26th _

Now that the second Christmas had finally finished, which, by the way, was a total success, Klaus held a small party the next day after and even though most of the attenders were tired, there was still a lively energy spread around that even Mogens couldn’t help but come along.

In the kitchen was the large pot of hot chocolate, delectably spiced and chocolatey which was where Mogens stood around with Alva. Jesper hadn’t arrived quite yet due to the snow outside being a dense annoyance.

While Jesper had meant to be there thirty minutes earlier from the official start, Jesper was late by an hour and the stupid snowstorm was not getting any easier. Luckily, the worst of it only came when he was more than halfway through the woods, and, even then, pockets of clarity would come when the wind pushed him forward (always in the right direction, he found).

Although, in the comforts of the cabin, Mogens was starting to fret about the postman slash secondary Santa, and Alva was close behind with the captain’s sentiments.

Slowly growing more and more worried, Klaus was anxiously checking outside the window every few minutes; however, as the snow piled bigger mounds and the window frosted over whiter and whiter, Klaus’s worry crept onto a low-level panic for the man of the hour

The sunset worried Jesper but as he saw the birdhouses chiming along with the wind, the postman wasn’t too concerned. When Jesper, dressed in a three-layer suit of snow, had finally dragged himself through the front door, Márgu (who was kept clueless for the reason of why the party was being held) shouted in excitement at seeing the friendly postman which alerted the entire mass of the party.

Which meant Klaus quickly took to attending to Jesper in order to help the man settle in. Alva and Mogens kept close by for it all though, because, as much as they tried to hide it, they were concerned as well.

“Hey, bud.” Mogens approached the man he was looking for.

Mollified earlier with hot cocoa and a treatment of standing nearby to the fireplace, Jesper—cozied up in a habitat of blankets—nestled on the lone armchair and looked up at the ferryman, whose face glowed orange from the nearby flame. Healthier, maybe, less… dulled, at least. Jesper thought Mogens to be looking better.

“Hey,” Jesper greeted.

“You good?”

Feeling his limbs come back to life and perhaps overheated, Jesper shrugged off the layers of blanket and slowly creeped out of the seat. “Yeah, kind of hot though,” he laughed, amused by himself.

Mogens’s orange-glowed face gave a small smile, and if the seaman’s face had taken a red tint, both parties could blame it on the fire.

“Let’s talk,” Mogens murmured.

Jesper growled, “Oh… Low blow.”

“Wait; what?” Confused, Mogens looked into Jesper’s eyes.

“I just got over you and you’re trying to drag me back in. Why? Why are you doing this?”

“No! No. I—“

“Oh, I get it. It’s a prank, right? Just a joke?” Jesper scrunched his eyebrows, feeling his heart race like a galloping horse. “I said we could just leave it all in the past!” he all but shouted.

The mass of bodies, mainly comprised of Saami adults, shifted eyes onto the two of them, standing under the doorway to the kitchen. When Jesper lowered his voice, Mogens realised how public they were being with their personal matters and gripped Jesper’s wrist.

Initially, Jesper put up a struggle, trying to be released from the ferryman’s grip, but something about Mogens’s face must’ve looked pleading or apologetic, because soon, Jesper acquiesced and followed gingerly.

Upstairs, they could still see the party from the second-floor landing. The open hallway overlooked the life of the party, but while their new position gave them viewing access to the crowds, they felt it was relatively private enough for their purposes.

Alone, Jesper noticed Mogens’s hand was still wrapped around his wrist and Jesper shook off the ferryman’s hold before crossing his arms. Mogens lightly flushed at the realisation he had been still holding on, but the postman looked irate and on the cusp of another argument.

“What’s this about.” Rather than a question, Jesper worded it as a demand. He glared stiffly at the other man’s eyes.

“Let me explain, Jesper.”

Hearing, for once, Jesper’s proper name exit out of Mogens’s mouth made the postman stiffen his lip and remain quiet. Instead of protesting, Jesper just waited, expectant of Mogens’s explanation already.

“I’m… not young anymore.” Mogens put on a small chuckle (almost sounding like coughing). “I’ve already lived through most of my life and you’re practically starting yours as Klaus’s little helper.

“I’ve married before. Before Smeerensburg, before… anything here knows about me, I guess. She was a sweet, lovely gal and we married before we knew it. Its been years since I last tried to be vulnerable with people…

“What I’m trying to say is: I’m old and cold-hearted, an old codger. You’re everything I’m not anymore. Even though I don’t understand _why_ you like me, I’ve realised that…” Mogens started fidgeting uncharacteristically.

“I like you.”

The open hallway was dressed to the brim with mistletoe and it came no surprise that the two men were underneath them. Jesper supposed only Alva would be the only one who would bother with hanging the mistletoe, decorating the second floor.

Suddenly, spontaneously, a bad idea popped up in Jesper’s head and, not caring about the repercussions, he challenged Mogens, “Prove it.”

A palpable sense of heat came into reality. Mogens wasn’t deaf to the innuendo and he wasn’t immune to the electricity spiking through his body.

Against everything he knew himself to be about, Mogens found himself suddenly holding the postman’s back—Jesper automatically gripped the back of the captain’s turtleneck—and tilted Jesper’s body down into a dip. Before closing in, Mogens murmured, “As you wish.”

Jesper closed his eyes as their lips met, fraught with need. If there was a world outside of them, a blurred sunlight was all either of them could see.

Stepping away, there was no fear or annoyance or worry. Mogens felt relaxed and whole. Jesper felt comprehensive and happy. If fire was chaos, then their kiss was a candlelight—organised enough to just feel wild but controlled enough to feel lovably safe.

Jesper huffed, “You sure showed me,” and laughed. “Since you did such a good job, you should be on the nice list.” Jesper smoothed his hand over Mogens cheek.

“All I want for Christmas is you,” snorted Mogens, already leaning into another kiss.

Jesper slipped the other’s cap off and fisted the hair on the side of Mogens’s head while he curled his palm over the mailman’s neck and kissed even deeper.

And instead of some vicious, little fire engulfing Jesper—devouring his entire being. He felt…

Nice.

Pleasant.

Calming.

Love had always been a destructive force, causing havoc and ruining everything, so when faced with this, Jesper could only chuckle. (Even if Mogens swears it’s more of a giggle.) This tender ambiguity was a strange creation. Unknown and yet familiar.

A breeze picked up inside of Klaus’s cabin, ruffling Jesper’s hair and almost snatching Mogens’s cap away from his steady grip.

He didn’t want something so fervent, explosive, devastating.

Under the mistletoe, Jesper murmured to Mogens’s mouth, “Stay a little while longer,” resting his head onto the captain’s shoulder.

Mogens lightly laughed before responding, “I’ll stay for as long as you want me,” feeling the curl of Jesper’s smile on his skin.

Two figures had walked up the stairs originally to find where the two of them were. Behind the mess of bodies, Alva and Klaus looked at the two with soft smiles at the two men finally getting together.

Jesper was looking forward to this. He was looking forward at the simplicity of Mogens, at the complexity of Mogens, at the definiteness of them. Jesper sighed, allowing the wondrous air to enfold him.

Eventually, when Jesper’s lean on Mogens caused the ferryman’s legs to give up, they fell to the ground as the Saami adults hummed about, amused at their ridiculousness. The fireplace roared from Klaus’s additional lumber. Alva went back downstairs into the kitchen to pour some more hot chocolate for the two. And, on the cabin’s floor, Jesper wrapped his arms around Mogens, who just laughed lightly, tighter. The subtle warming of Jesper’s heart settled easily within him.

Just a little longer—and maybe forever—they could have this moment.

They would have each other.

**Author's Note:**

> first of all... omg i made it to new years eve. at first i was going for Christmas day, but this fic got bigger and bigger as i kept going (not that its good lol). 
> 
> it was originally going to be just the jan. 24th section and it was going to be that the door locks up and then mogens and jesper would have to get used to each other while trying to keep their sanity but that wasn't the direction i was going for also i don't think i could've written that to the level i would've liked. 
> 
> i didn't outright mention it but mogens is depressed for the fic, but i didn't really feel comfortable explicitly writing it out. 
> 
> i might go back and edit some stuff around but at the same time, wow i don't want to look at my writing. like eeEWwwww...
> 
> not sure if there's anything else to say, but happy new year see yall in 2020


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